Lost and Found
by Jellybean225
Summary: After the suicide of his best friend, John has never been himself since. Now, two and a bit years later; Sherlock returns from the dead, and John's reaction was far from convenient. (Two-shot) Fluff! :L


**Hello, I am sorry to all of my other followers...I wasn't happy with the other stories...so they died. Woops. Anyway, I am back and have been writing again. This should only be a two-shot, depends. Sorry for mistakes, please correct me x**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock x**

It's been, I don't know, 2 years and 10 or so months, since Sherlock committed suicide. Even after almost three years, I still can't get the image out of my head, his dead bloodied form lying motionless on the ground.

It haunts me.

Every night since the 'fall', I have been plunged into horrific, nauseating nightmares, which send an unwanted shiver crawling up your spine. The type that even time can't heal. The type, that no matter what you try, every night without fail, come back to haunt you.

Tonight... was no exception.

I lay awake, dreading the 'normally' blissful sleep that followed an exhausting day of solving crime. But, it's no longer normal, not now anyway.

I used to believe that my time after the war (when I first made an encounter with Sherlock) was by far, one of the most unearthly experiences of my life. The way he simply looked up and instantly, as if not to put much thought in the matter, knew so much about my life from a simple limp. It's just mind-blowing, surely no normal human of the intelligence of our generation should be able to do such a thing, it's absurd.

Yet, thinking back, those were the days... the days to remember.

However; now they're gone, you miss them. I miss them. More than anything else I have encountered.

As I lay here thinking about my past, the world around me moved on, the people carry on their everyday lives like nothing happened. But, there will always be the memory, a memory of Sherlock, somewhere no matter how hard you try to erase it.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

That's all I could see, oozing over the pavement only centre metres away from me.

Sherlock's blood.

No matter how hard I fought to get closer to my fallen friend...best friend; the nurses and medics wouldn't allow me. I could feel the tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I fumbled around trying to find a pulse in the now pale white hand that belonged to the motionless figure.

Panic swept over me when I couldn't locate it, just moments after the nurses had wheeled Sherlock inside, I collapsed into an emotion wreck on the side of the path. I could hear some-one talking to me, possible asking if I was alright, I ignored it. I mean, I just witnessed the death of my best friend; no-one could possibly be ok, would they?

I awoke again with a shudder; like I do every night since 'the fall', I could feel fresh tears seeping down my face. I barely noticed the layer of cold sweat that was plastered my forehead, I was too busy trying to clam my now racing heart.

After what seemed like hours; however, was possibly only minutes, if that. I glanced wearily over to the clock that sat rhythmically ticking on my bed side table.

It read; 6:45am.

Soon, after reaching the conclusion there was no way I would be able to get any more sleep; I rose from the bed and stumbled my way over to the bath room. After removing the necessary Items of clothing, I stepped into the shower. I Let the hot steamy water beat down onto my face for ages, I felt relaxing...

Finally after stepping out into the cold chill of the air, getting changed and wandering down stairs to make a cup of tea. I glanced at the time.

7:55 am.

Wow, did I really spend that long in the shower?

Settling down on the cotton arm chair opposite Sherlock's, I picked up a random book from the side and flicked to a random page. I soon realised the book I picked up was a copy of the A- Z book Sherlock adductive off those people as they were walking past.

I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop the tears that pieced the corners of my eyes. Unlike the grown man I am, I just broke down and cried my head in my hands. It's been over two years, why does it hurt so badly.

It must have been a few hours after, I felt weak broken. I could hear Miss Hudson, shuffling around in the kitchen, but I ignored her. Like I had every other person who had come to visit; Mycroft, Harry, Lestrade...All of them, they all remained me distinctly of Sherlock.

After two years, well the first year to be honest; I had managed to remember the foot fall of everyone who entered the flat. Every movement, I even managed to predict their next one.

It was round 2:00pm, I hear the door open and close, and I thought it may have just been Mycroft again, he never knocked. However, this time it was different. The foot fall was light, more graceful, almost like... No, it couldn't be, but he was dead?

Leaping up from the chair I hadn't moved in for hours, I ran towards the door, my head started to spin rapidly from the lack of nutrition over the last few months. I knew Sherlock was dead, but there was an odd, adrenaline feeling in my stomach, one I couldn't subside.

Finally reaching the door after a painful journey, I laid eyes on a figure. He was tall, slender and had a friendly smirk on his face. My heart skipped a beat.

"Hello John."

That was the last thing that registered, before black swept over my vision.

TBC...

**Dun, Dun, Dun...**

**Thanks for reading, i would love to hear what you think..R&R pleaseee x**


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